


enormous, within your small hands

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e05 The Journey, Season/Series 03, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-31 11:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Shiro's broken. Keith puts him back together.





	enormous, within your small hands

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the last stanza of Pablo Neruda's "Finale": 
> 
> 'The world is bluer and of the earth  
at night, when I sleep  
enormous, within your small hands..'

Keith's eyes are the most beautiful thing he's seen. 

Shiro's head drops into Keith's shoulder as he's lifted out of the cruiser, mouth nearly touching the nape of Keith's neck, with a breathless "Don't let them see me like this." 

He quickly gets settled in Keith's room—old room, now. Keith had stuttered apologies—wishing Shiro had his room back, but they'd traded, and Keith's old room was empty, but he could move his things from his room and switch again—

“It’s all right,” he reassures Keith. “It’s all right.” 

But really, he feels wrung out. Against Keith’s protests, he refuses the healing pod, not wanting to be entrapped in another suffocating space so soon. In Keith’s old room, he strips out of his piloting gear, dropping it in pieces on the floor and kicking them into the corners, Keith dutifully trailing behind him, offering him water and space goo—anything he can scrounge up; no one would mind; they would be happy to see him. Shiro shakes his head, stumbling to the bed, not even bothering to take off his boots. 

He falls face-first into a pillow, soft and clean and white. Greasy strands of hair fall flat on his dry cheek, sticking to the cool sheets. He smells awful, he knows, but he doesn’t care; he’s so tired. 

Keith’s still lingering like a candle not fully gone down, still clad in his paladin armor—red, still, why hasn’t he changed? He’s paler than Shiro remembers, dark circles stark against sharp cheekbones. This isn’t the Keith he remembers, so silent and broken and still, slinking backwards, gloved hand reaching for the door. 

“Stay,” he suddenly begs. He can blame oxygen and food and water deprivation on this later, in the self-loathing of his thoughts. All he wants is for Keith to be near him. 

There’s a clear second of hesitation, but Keith closes the door behind him and begins to remove his armor, starting with the gauntlets. From the bed, Shiro watches him through slitted eyes, the dim blue lights barely capturing Keith’s deft fingers fumbling at the pauldron, the vambrace, the wrist blasters, the torso and chest plates, revealing the slim black of the bodysuit. Hands go up to the collar, to the fabric covering the stretch of his neck, and pause. 

“Leave it,” he says. “Come here.” 

Obediently, Keith slips forward and crawls into the scant space beside him. He’s tempted to curl his arm around Keith’s waist, pull him closer, and bury his nose in Keith’s hair, but stops himself. He’s already asking so much of Keith. He can’t have more. 

Beside him, Keith settles easily, and they fall asleep like this, curled together like animals in a den. 

* * *

The next morning, Keith’s gone. He’s expected this, but still lays there, as if still dreaming, hoping it would change, that he’d blink and see Keith curled beside him. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays, whether he falls in and out of dreams, if time ebbs and flows and signals to him the exact rhythm of doboshes or vargas. 

What he does get is a knock on the door. Keith then comes in with fabric dangling over one arm. White, gray, nothing he recognizes. “I found these,” he says. “You missed breakfast, but it’s lunch soon; Hunk’s been trying out new recipes. They’re pretty good.” 

Shiro shakes his head. He doesn’t want to get up and face the others and eat when he doesn’t feel anything hollow in his stomach and pretend to act completely fine. He wants to stay here. To rest. To be with Keith. It’s selfish, he knows, but he’s so tired. “I...maybe later. I should probably shower.” He lies, “It might help me feel a bit more human.” 

Keith nods understandably. “Good idea. I’ll set a stall up.” He turns, forgetting to deposit the clothes, and leaves. 

Shiro swings his feet out of bed, intending to follow, but when he attempts to stand, immediately collapses onto the floor. His leg, he remembers, tied crudely with a torn shirt above the knee, not to mention his chest is a gnawing, hungry thing, with his lungs aching like a throbbing sore. His head feels strangely empty, except for a sharp pain in the back of his skull, and it seems to have traveled to his ears, behind his eyes. His eyelids are sticky and heavy, and every muscle in his body moans in a familiar way; his heart races at the thought. Could the world be so cruel to have his disease catch up with him once he got back? Would it have been better, after all, to disappear in the stars or on the lab table, than to make everyone watch him die slowly? 

They could sell tickets, he thinks morosely. Step right up, you knew him as the record-breaker and Black Paladin, ladies and gentlemen, it’s a trick, he’s only a mortal, only a man, just like you…

He forces himself to his knees. Maybe he can crawl, he thinks, then dismisses it immediately. No. Not like this. He’s always imagined he’d die standing. 

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice is outside the door now. “Shiro, are you okay?” 

“Keith,” he breathes. His palms are flat on the ground, coldness seeping through his knees. “Keith, I can’t.” 

In a flash, Keith’s there, kneeling beside him, helping him to his feet. He remembers hoisting Keith’s arm around his shoulders at the Blade’s base, Keith trembling on both legs but fingers in a death grip on his knife. He seemed so deceptively fragile, then, but Keith was like a cluster of red-hot coals stubbornly clinging to life, refusing to descend into embers. He’d always been like that, unlike Shiro, who felt too often like a falling star, burning bright, then crashing to the ground in smoke and rubble. 

“Shiro,” Keith says softly. “Shiro, I think you really need to get into a healing pod.” 

“No,” Shiro manages. “Please. No.” He can barely think, but all that stays in his head is _ no. _He must not be in that healing pod, be held down and mind taken away, even for a quicker recovery. To be the leader again. To be whole. And he can’t. Not now. 

“Please,” he says again. 

* * *

That's how they end up like this: Keith crouching on the tile, a bucket of water beside him, with Shiro sitting, legs stretched out straight in front of him, leaning back against the wall. He’s stripped down to his underwear, hair still hanging loose around his shoulders, hands useless at his sides. 

The water is warm and soothing, taking away the dirt and grime and flecks of dried blood. It’s soothing, seeing all of it briefly stain the cloth and be wrung out, disappearing down the drain, as if it never existed. But the nicest thing is Keith—tenderly pouring water over his head, clever fingers massaging mint-smelling Altean shampoo into his scalp. He didn’t want Shiro to drown, or slip in the bath, and Shiro feels thankful. The thought of liquid rising over his chin, his mouth, his nose—it’s too much. 

Keith bathes him, slowly and carefully, wiping him down with a damp rag. Keith at first skirts his injured thigh, looking up at Shiro for reassurance, then at his nod, cleans away the dirt lingering in the edges of the wound. It stings, but Keith's touch is greater than any pain, his hands deft but trembling, ever so slightly as they move down to his waist. Shiro imagines them further, curious and eager, taking him in hand and making him...what? Feel alive? Transferring that spark, like passing a fire for a torch back and forth? A torch, a torch he’s passed to Keith, but he wants it again, that purpose, that flare, that determination…

But Keith’s hand is still. Hesitant in a way he doesn’t need to be. Yet he doesn’t know this, as water drips from the sodden fabric onto his bare stomach, droplets sliding down his skin, cooling and pooling onto the floor beneath him.

"I'll..." Shiro manages, and holds out his hand. 

Keith flushes, pushing the rag into his palm, and turns away as Shiro washes, pulling the fabric aside and realizing that this hasn’t been too thought-out, that the water will seep into the thin cloth and leave him all but bare. But there’s nothing much he can do about that. 

When he’s finished, he puts the rag down between them on the floor. Keith looks at him, chin raised, eyes determinedly up. “Good?” he asks.

He wants those hands, slick and lathered and water-pruned, to slide along his back, his shoulders, his hips, without fabric in the way. He wants Keith’s mouth against his newly-cleaned skin, mouthing at the leftover streaks of water. He wants— 

“We didn’t think this through,” he quickly says. “My hair, it’s going to be tangled like this…” 

Keith tilts his head. “Do you want to cut it?” 

He imagines Keith settled behind him, limbs on either side, running a brush through the damp locks, every tooth running down gently, ever so gently, down his scalp to the tips of his hair. Or Keith’s fingers, untangling knots piece by piece, nails scratching lightly against vulnerable skin, soothing him with the pads of his fingers. 

“No,” he says. “I’ll see what this looks like for now.” 

* * *

He's not truly hungry, but Keith looks so worried that Shiro accepts a bowl of broth, which smells like one of Coran's horrible healthy concoctions. Pillows propped behind his head and shoulders, he's managed to stay in a relative seating position—lounging, really—with Keith half-kneeling, half-standing with a tray balanced in one hand. 

With the other, Keith holds the spoon out, then presses it gently to Shiro's lips. He takes it, sipping slowly, and bit by bit, Keith dips back into the bowl, slow and careful. The metal is warmed by the broth, which tastes like watered-down potatoes and raw beets. If nothing else, it makes his throat feel better. 

They're quiet during this ritual of sorts, even by the time Shiro can keep down solids. Keith feeds him fruits and vegetables and chunks of bread, dipped in soup, calloused fingers sometimes slipping past Shiro's lips. 

It's strangely intimate, but Shiro doesn't mind. He in fact hungers for it in a way food doesn't seem to be doing, the way Keith holds his breath, as if anything stronger will break him into shards, or how his eyes are lidded and relaxed, hands steady and sure. They know what to do with him; Shiro wonders if he's nursed anyone else before, at the home or while he was away. 

Up close, Shiro can count each eyelash, the flicker of pink between his lips. His eyes are weary but hold an ocean of affection. And his hair, ends curling around a sharply-angled jawline, the curve of an ear, seems softer than it looks from a distance. 

* * *

He wants this, he soon realizes. He's selfish, but not enough to ask, not when Keith comes in with a tray of food, voice soft and concerned. _ How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? _

He fantasizes about it: pulling Keith in by the lapels of his jacket, kissing him with desperation, Keith's fingers winding into hair. Perhaps he'll pull Keith on the bed, on top of him, the weight reminding him where he is. He'd lay there and let Keith kiss and kiss and kiss him, bangs falling over his eyes and hands exploring the newly-formed skin of his chest. 

He feels ashamed of these thoughts, especially when Keith later offers him water, if he doesn’t want to eat. 

But still, Shiro imagines drinking out of Keith's hands, water pooling from the cupped palms, his own chin wet and tongue lapping at the ridges and lines and skin, hair falling like a curtain between them. Keith, wrists upheld, shirt and hair dark against his pale skin. Himself, head bowed and consuming, slowly and steadily out of those hands that healed him. That opened the pod and brought him back home. 

Instead, he sips from a cup Keith holds out, chapped lips grazing the edge. He looks at Keith as he swallows. He wants to drink him, consume him, suck him in like air. He wouldn’t dare touch him with his Galra hand, the heavy metal that can rip apart anything like wet tissue paper; he’d be careful to only use his left, as complicated as it might be. He wants to explore and tease and press, perhaps a finger into the soft, wet space of Keith’s mouth, crook it around his teeth. Or return the favor and allow his fingers to glide tenderly over Keith’s body, sharp bones and coiled strength. Above else, he wants to make Keith feel good. 

Keith meets his gaze. Eyes dart to his mouth, throat bobbing in a wordless swallow. 

There’s silence between them. Keith’s lips part, and just then, a faint alarm reverberates through the castle. They both jump in place, water leaping and dribbling down Shiro’s shirt, Keith stepping away as if avoiding a landmine. 

“I have to go,” Keith croaks. “Mission. Will you…” 

“I’ll be fine,” Shiro lies. His hand waves lightly through the air. “Go.” 

Keith nods, darts away, and Shiro finishes the last of his water. 

* * *

He dreams of running, away from the lab table and creatures and cages of bones from a beast. It doesn’t matter where he is; there are star fields and astral planes and meteorites and red cliffs and gray rocks spurting out water. Sometimes, he's burning, like Zarkon's lightning rushing into his skull. He feels like a candle trickling down, flame melting through soft wax. 

And hand-in-hand with him is always Keith, either pulling him or being pulled, carrying by the swiftness of Shiro’s feet. Around them are ships and hands and wind, greedily grabbing at them, but they keep running, running, running, hands locked in each other’s grip. To where, he doesn’t know. Beyond the horizon, the sun, the stars, or just away. 

In the end, though, he wakes up alone, shirt sticking to his back, smelling like day-old sweat, throat cotton-dry, head with its usual dull pain. 

* * *

He's later able to bathe himself, and in some way, he's glad. His hands roam over his own body, stripped clean of scars, as water streams down like tears. Soap and grime swirl down the drain, and for a long time, he stands underneath the water, hair dripping down his back. 

Keith would be—he's not sure, because even living in close quarters, Keith was a private person. He'd put his nose into Keith's damp hair, lay his hand on the smooth back, mouth at the sprinkled water on his bare shoulder. And he'd wipe Keith down as tenderly as Keith did for him, cloth slipping over his corded muscle, his long limbs, then, baptize him underneath the spray. He wonders if Keith’s hair will completely cover the back of his neck, or if he’ll find a space on that pale expanse to press his lips against. 

When he emerges, there's the usual folded towel and some clothes. Shiro slips into them, and passes through the next door. Keith is standing there, towel around his waist and getting ready to step inside the shower stall, eyes shyly looking at Shiro's chest through the thin, white fabric, then just as quickly flicking away. 

“Doing good?” he asks, too casually. 

“Better,” Shiro lies. “I might be back to myself soon.” 

* * *

Shiro still hasn’t seen the team. He should be bothered by this, but he doesn’t care, as long as Keith’s here. 

He should have taken a chance when he first came back, when Keith first laid a hand on his shoulder, before everyone had a chance to see how broken he was. Or on the geyser planet, after Keith piloted Black for him, at the campfire where Haggar’s wound burned a slow hole through his side. Or before the battle with Zarkon—isn’t that what’s traditional, making one grand, selfish decision before taking that leap of faith? 

Shiro was always terrible at goodbyes, but hindsight was 20/20. If he really knew the future, he would have slipped Keith his dogtags before the launch. Told him to wait. 

He still would have gone to Kerberos, though. He knows that much about himself. 

* * *

There’s fire, everywhere, and hands and blades on his skin, voices pushing into his skull. _ We want you strong, _ they say, _ you just won’t die, _and just as the tip of a knife slices through his chest, he wakes up. 

Shuddering, Shiro gets out of bed, bare feet and all. If he’s quiet and careful, he can take a walk around the castle, like he used to do. 

Keith’s crouched on the observation deck, tray balanced on his knees and datapad at his side. He doesn’t seem to have heard Shiro; his back’s turned, and Shiro can see Keith’s wearing his usual black tee, red jacket curled up at his feet like a cat. The familiar leather gloves are on, though, fingers flicking through glowing symbols and twists of maps and flecks of galaxies. His other hand’s still clutching the Altean equivalent of a spork, raised above a plate of uneaten food goo, gelatinous and green and glowing in the light of the stars reflecting onto the deck. 

“Keith?” Shiro asks. 

Keith startles, and with a clatter, the tray falls onto the floor. With an apologetic wince, Shiro crosses the room and drops to his knees and crouches down to help, picking up the remains of the food with his bare hands, muttering apologies. Keith’s on the ground, too, kneeling and pawing at the floor, repeating, “It’s all right; I got it,” and suddenly, he's kissing Shiro on the mouth. 

It's slow and sweet and tender, Shiro’s bones melting, body burning in a way he’s never burned before, and he holds onto Keith, opening his mouth, craving more of the fire, gripping onto Keith’s waist with his right hand. In response, Keith's eyes slide shut, and he takes Shiro's shirt in his fist, tugging him closer. He tastes of stardust and space goo, hands moving to touch the heat of Shiro’s chest, heart beating in time to their breaths, and Shiro sighs, _ at last, at last_—

Keith jolts up, drops the food all over again onto the floor. Absentmindedly, he brushes his hands on his shirt, then looks down at the mess in dismay. “I…” he starts, then turns around and flees. 

Fleeing is the right word, Shiro thinks, chagrined. They shouldn't have—he shouldn't have—

But, if he’s being honest, he can’t really regret it. 

* * *

Their next and last conversation alone is after a mission, with Shiro sitting in his bed, blankets pulled up to his waist and sheets curled into his fingers, and Keith standing at the edge, arms crossed over his jacket. They make small talk, speculate about Zarkon and teleporting, and fade into awkward silence, not meeting each other's eyes. There's nothing said about what happened, what it means. 

But he has to know. "Hey, Keith," he asks, "how many times are you going to have to save me before this is over?" 

Keith turns back, one foot already over the threshold. Light from the hallway streams over his face, revealing the slowly-forming tender smile, the honesty in his eyes. "As many times as it takes," Keith replies. 

He looks as if he wants to say more, but instead softly slides the door behind him, enclosing Shiro in darkness. 

Shiro knows he must get up, do something about his unkempt appearance—trim his hair, shave the itchy stubble, find some suitable clothes, rejoin the team, get back into the battle. He'll have to say some sort of speech—no, a few encouraging words would do. And the Black Paladin business would have to be resolved, quickly, before it gets out of hand. 

But for now, he thinks: At least he has this. 


End file.
